


Gifts for the Senses

by alyxpoe



Series: Always and Forever [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Happy Christmas, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Merry Christmas, Romance, Romantic Fluff, men having sex, men kissing, xmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:38:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Touch, taste, hear, see, smell: if I did my job right!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts for the Senses

“John.” Sherlock says in his deepest voice, the word dripping from his lips like honey to vibrate against John’s ear. They are still lying in bed, curled around each other and warm even for the lack of clothing. Sherlock is completely stretched out over John, his long, lithely muscled body’s heat soaking into John’s stouter, less firmly muscled one. 

John enjoys these mornings due to their rarity: as is true to his nature, Sherlock is usually a swirling cyclone of energy shoving his lover into whatever clothing happens to be nearest and prodding him out the door with the promise of a hot cup of coffee and if John’s lucky, some sort of breakfast pastry that may or may not resemble a donut in some sense of the word, unless they are heading directly to the Yard. John learned long ago that if he did not bring enough to share it would be like setting a three-legged zebra loose in a cage with a bunch of hungry lionesses.

Not today, though; the tall man’s energy seems to be radiating from him instead of the opposite; usually Sherlock seems to pull energy from everything around him, animate or non. Not that John is complaining, by any stretch of the imagination. There are times when it is a great benefit to having his own personal space heater: stake-outs, being stuck in a steamer trunk in the back of open bed lorry, when attempting to dry out from a late November dunk in the Thames: the usual.

Sherlock promised him this _one_ day after said swim in the drink and it seems he is making good on it.

John is fighting to stay asleep; or at least as close to it as is possible with proof of Sherlock’s early morning contentment sticking in his thigh; proof enough that even Anderson wouldn’t screw up the evidence in this case.

“Lee me ‘lone.” John mumbles into a mouthful of insane curls that do not even have the decency not to smell clean, even at this hour. He is pretty sure that he smells like he’s been sleeping in a bear’s den after last night's fiasco involving a burger joint's grease traps and a stolen signet ring. John screws his eyes more tightly closed and attempts to fake out the world’s most observing consulting git. Who just happens to be slowly dragging those talented, and slightly calloused, fingertips along John’s ribcage, making him shudder.

The bedroom around them is dimly lit in shades of grey, charcoal and silver. The silky emerald green duvet is still mostly across them, resting against the small of Sherlock’s bare back, just covering well-rounded buttocks. John knows this because due to a happy accident when he stretched out a little, one of his hands felt the need to rest there; quite on its own without him. Absolutely. Neither one of them is paying it any mind. John lifts his head a little, enjoying the sight of the tiny winking fairy lights he hung up in the bedroom window dancing across the expanse of lightly freckled detective shoulders. He runs the palm of his left hand down Sherlock’s spine from the nape of his neck to just where the duvet is resting; warm skin stretched over lean, defined muscle and the faintest touch of goose bumps with each pass of John’s hand. Soft leather over steel.

John growls softly in his throat then tightens his fingers to grasp Sherlock’s hips as they begin to slowly roll together. He can just make out the thrumming pulse of life under his hands. They slip slowly into a languid promise of things to come. 

When Sherlock’s teeth begin to gently nip at John’s neck, the spell is broken. He gives in, titling his head against the black satin pillowcase in order to give his lover ample space to inflict the self-made battle of wills between wanting him to leave royal purple love bites and trying to stop that talented mouth because really? Aren’t love bites just a little bit unprofessional?

John snorts to himself then tries to hide the sound with a soft moan. As if ‘professional’ has even stopped Sherlock Holmes! He begins to protest but mere hints of the words are stolen from him by that gifted mouth. Red velvet lips and just a hint of cinnamon against his own tongue and John is reeling with sensory overload, turning his brain to mush as only his personal Holmes can do.

In an instant, it is all taken away, leaving John cold and trembling. Sherlock pushes himself up with both hands and John finds himself the focus of a sweltering green gaze. Those colored lights on the tree in the sitting room have nothing on this; he is powerless to do anything except stare. After a time, Sherlock narrows his eyes and cocks his head to the side coyishly, knowing full well what he is doing to John as he slowly pulls the cool material of the silken duvet down John’s belly, over his thighs, passing over his flushed erection, then down his legs, over his bare feet to be dropped at the end of the bed, the shiny material whispering softly as it floats to the floor.

“Happy Christmas, John.” Sherlock's gleaming grin is scorching in the moments just before dawn. John opens his arms wide to invite the detective back into his embrace, silently hoping that no one decides to pay them an early Yuletide visit for the next two hours.


End file.
